TONY

Recently, my little brother got married in Myrtle Beach. Since not many friends
and relatives could attend, I threw a little party for Tony and Beth at my house.
I felt honored to make a toast, and had a pretty good joke about his wife Beth’s
boobs, so I gave it my best. After my boob joke was received with decent laughter,
I tried to say something about my brother. I was shocked to hear my voice cracking
as I told family and friends that when it came to Tony, “ I could not think of
anything funny to say.” When I turned to look at my brother, all I could do was
mumble that I loved him so much and give him a kiss and hug ( he had a fresh, soapy
smell).

I really should not have been surprised, Tony and I have been close since forever.
I am six years his senior and have pulled a lot of crap throughout the years.
When he was in little league, I was umpiring and can vividly recall the traitorous
look on his face when I called him out on strikes on a chin high fastball.
I got him high for the first time in his life, and promptly abandoned him when my
mom came home and busted us ( he thought he was going to die that night and kept
looking at his fingernails for signs of his impending doom). We now work together
at the aforementioned shite job, and when not complaining, we are drinking or
planning to drink.

Physically, Tony is thick: Wide feet, stout legs, muscular torso and arms.
Like all the men in my family, his hair is beating a hasty retreat. He is
always messing around with his facial hair, but more often than not he sports
an iron jaw type of beard.

Inside, Tony is Irish to the core: Fiercely loyal to his inner circle, a
momma’s boy in the best sense of the word, quick to laugh and quick to anger.
Quite simply, he is the single funniest man I know; equal parts Monty Python
and Groucho Marx, wrapped in a well read steel trap of a mind.

In short, he is a devil and devilishly handsome.